I’m still sick.
I know. I know. Last week I told you to take the vacation before the plague hits. And here I am, post-vacation, still horizontal, still mainlining soup. The immune system is a meticulous charge nurse with a long memory and absolutely zero compassion for your inbox.
But I came home to news I was not expecting.
We went from Special Focus to 3 stars. In one year.
Let me translate that for anyone who hasn’t had the distinct honor of living through a Special Focus designation. Special Focus is CMS putting your facility on a federal watch list. The survey findings were serious enough, frequent enough, that the government is now showing up more than once a year to check on you. There’s financial risk. Reputational damage. A very public asterisk next to your name on every database a family member will Google before placing their loved one. It is, in every way that counts, zero stars. It is a documented federal statement that things were not okay.
Most facilities that land in Special Focus take years to recover. Some never do.
We did it in twelve months.
I found out somewhere between a DayQuil dose and a nap that went way too long. My phone lit up and I just lay there thinking: is this real? I made my team send me the actual documentation. Because I am exactly who you think I am.
It was real.
Here’s the part I want you to understand.
I built this.
Not alone. Never alone. But I built the system, held the standard, and made the calls that nobody wanted to make — for a year. Before I had the data. Before anyone could confirm it was working. I built it while people were tired, while the beds were full, while the surveys kept coming. I built it in a building that was on a federal watch list, with a team that needed someone to say: we are going to get out of this.
I said it. And then I showed up every day and meant it.
My DON, my charge nurses, my floor staff, social services, dietary, admissions — they held it. Every shift, every call bell, every care plan, every conversation with a family who was scared. They executed. They showed up. They carried it across the finish line.
That’s the part that gets me.
I led it. They lived it. And three stars is what it looks like when both of those things are true at the same time.
So we’re throwing a party.
I’m still behind on a month of emails. My inbox is genuinely a crime scene. There are still things to fix, gaps to close, audits to finish — because there are always things to fix in long-term care, always, without exception, full stop.
We’re throwing the party anyway.
If you wait to celebrate until everything is perfect, you will never celebrate. This industry is not a finish-line business. There is no moment when you get to say “done” and mean it. The next thing is always loading. So you have to build the celebration into the work itself — not after it, during it. Because your team needs to hear that what they did mattered. Not at the next all-staff meeting. Not when you’ve caught up on everything else. Now. While the win is still warm. You gather your people. You look them in the face and you say: this was you. You let them stand in it for a minute, before the next hard thing arrives.
Because the next hard thing is always arriving.
My team held this facility together through a year of unglamorous, unwitnessed, keep-the-lights-on work. They held it together while I was out there collecting what I can only describe as a very personal viral souvenir. They held it together long before I took a vacation, and they’ll keep holding it.
They deserve the party.
Here’s what I want you to take with you:
Celebrate before you’re ready. Before the inbox is empty. Before you’ve caught up. Before it feels “earned.”
It’s already earned. You already did the work. Your team already did the work. Stop waiting for some imaginary moment of stillness that is not coming, and name the win now — out loud, in front of the people who made it happen.
The work doesn’t pause for your celebration.
Don’t make your celebration pause for the work.
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